


Just A Dream

by smutduck (sharkduck)



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Fallen Hero spoilers, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Retribution Spoilers, Sidestep thinks Ortega is Big Sexi, Wet Dream, no beta readers we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkduck/pseuds/smutduck
Summary: Sidestep has an unfortunate dream that results in a cold shower and a lot of time and the laundromat.Or, the shameless ficlet in which Sidestep doesn't wake up in That One Scene in Retribution.





	Just A Dream

The hug is as unexpected as it is (mostly) welcome. Ortega holds you close – you can feel his warm breath on your neck through your nanomesh, along with –

_Oh, god._

Your face heats up, and you choke out a noise, strangled from the back of your throat. Ortega pulls back, gentle hands on your cheeks, warm. So warm. He’s smiling; there’s nothing coy in it. His eyes sparkle, adoring, intense – and, god, he presses his hips closer. The heat and hardness between your thighs cause you to whimper in a way that, to your ears and probably to his too, sounds desperate and not at all wholesome.

“Are you okay?” He asks, rolling your mask up – you want to stop him, because now he can see you blush, the pads of his thumbs against your bare cheeks. “Is this okay?” The mask falls to the dirt. You don’t particularly care at this point.

“Yeah,” your mouth doesn’t feel like your own, and even if every instinct is screaming with high-pitched ferocity to tell him no, you can’t bring yourself to. Your lips move entirely of their own volition. “Yeah, it is.” His smile grows wider, and your heart clenches in your chest, almost stopping when he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. His hair and skin are sticky with sweat.

“I’m glad.” You bite your lip. _Kiss me kiss me kiss me – no wait don’t._ So many discordant thoughts. Whirling around in your head like a maelstrom, banging against the inside of your skull, a tornado ripping through a house.

The tornado stops dead when he kisses you, lips warm and ridiculously soft. Your mind shorts out for a hot second, trying to process. This is happening. Ortega is kissing you and – pushing. Forward. Gentle but insistent.

He presses you against a nearby wall, tilting his head just enough so he could slip his tongue past your teeth, everything warm and wet and – being quite honest, incredibly lewd. At that point he fries your brain completely. You can’t bring yourself to care. Especially not when one of his hands cups the side of your neck, against your fluttering pulse, while the other trails down your side to your hip, keeping you gently pinned to the wrecked brick. You grip his biceps, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket –

Is he wearing a jacket? Strange. You could have sworn he was wearing something else just a second ago. But it seems like such a natural progression of events that you don’t mind. Your own shirt feels strange against your back, like it’s not supposed to be there. Heavy.

Maybe you just want it off.

Ortega finally pulls away, taking the breath from your lungs with him as he trails kisses from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, to your throat. You don’t notice that his hands have moved until he’s unbuttoning your pants and shimmying them down your legs, and then a sharp spike of panic stabs your gut so hard and so quickly that you tense but –

Your legs are bare. Blessedly bare. No tattoos, no injury (were you injured before? You can’t remember) just skin. Your skin. Skin that Ortega is running the calloused palms of his hands over, lifting your legs off the ground with one swift motion that leaves you clinging to him with an undignified squeak.

When did he unbutton his pants?

You bite your lip and cross your ankles behind his back, secure against the wall. You won’t slip. He clings to you so tightly that he won’t let you – you can’t sidestep out of his arms or hands anymore. Pinned. Or perhaps leashed is the proper term.

Ortega peppers kisses down the column of your throat and holds your hips steady, pushing in, no stretching – there’s no pain, and that’s not how bodies work. You’re sure that’s not how bodies work.

Do you care? Absolutely not. Not with heat and electricity sprinting up and down your spine.

He’s buried to the hilt by the time you manage to catch your breath; it feels like the static in his mind is a physical thing, spilling into you, alive and pooling in your stomach. You want him to move so badly it’s a physical ache between your legs, one that leaves you wiggling against the wall. He snorts, laughing at your blushing face and trembling hands and bleary eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” He sounds breathless.

“Shut up,” you groan, having half a mind to push his face away from your neck, but that would only give him the satisfaction of watching you. Seeing you. That’s an embarrassment you want to avoid entirely.

“I mean it,” he says. He presses his forehead against yours again, serious. So very serious. The thought that he really does mean it scares you – you can deal with the heartbreak of a one-time physical fling. You can deal with the hurt of being friends and nothing more than that. But him thinking you’re beautiful? And maybe wanting, god forbid, a relationship? Your heart begins to race, a shiver settling into your bones. Again, your mouth moves on its own, saying things. Things you wouldn’t normally say.

“I know.” The truthfulness of it leaves an empty, yawning spot inside you. “Are you going to move any time soon?”

He laughs – it’s a hearty, gorgeous sound that leaves you breathless. Almost as breathless as him rocking his hips in one, slow motion does. It feels good. _Really_ good. So good that it tears a moan out of you, choked and warbling, your hands curled into fists in his jacket.

“Do you like that?” He whispers against your jaw.

“I – yeah,” you’re cut off from saying more when he rocks his hips again, harder this time, your back scraping against the wreckage of the wall you’re pressed against.

“How ‘bout now?”

You answer with a wanton moan, head lolling against the back while he steadily drills you into the brickwork. It’s hard and dirty for your first time but _god,_ do you enjoy it, being louder than you probably should, Ortega’s face buried in the crook of your neck. It’s not how you imagined doing this. But you also never thought this, whatever _this_ is, would happen in a million billion years.

You’re not sure if you’re excited or terrified. You suppose that’s a bridge you’ll burn when you get to it – right now all you feel is heat, sweat settling in the layers between your clothes, Ortega’s hands burning against your thighs while he keeps you hoisted. He’s so quiet – you gasp when he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck and slams you against the wall.

Something in the core of your stomach snaps like taught wire, and every muscle locks while you hurtle towards the edge _fast too fast everything is happening too fast –_

You wake up from your dream in a pool of sweat. And other things. Your face is hot, and the side of your neck tingles – you touch it, but there’s no bitemark there. No indentation of teeth. Just a dream.

A dream that left a mess for you to clean up.

You wrinkle your nose and sigh at your sheets, peeling yourself out of bed and out of your pajamas to take a cold shower that you desperately need.

_Fuck you, Ortega,_ is your last, bitter thought before you force yourself into a frigid spray of icy water.

The idea that he would is more appealing than it should be.


End file.
